An Outsider at the Crossroads

At that point, I had already had this conversation way too many times, with way too many well-meaning friends who simply couldn’t see past their prejudice. It seemed that every cup of coffee over the past month came with a free intervention attempt. It was getting quite tiring, and my patience was wearing rather thin.

I took a deep breath, preparing myself to once again engage in the same line of arguments that I had gone through countless times over the past month.

“Actually, it’s not much more dangerous than this neighborhood, and when it comes to the kind of crimes that I’m most concerned about, its quite comparable to this place. According to the latest NYPD statistical breakdown, I have just about the same chance of being mugged in the heart of Park Slope than in the five-block radius of my new place in East Flatbush.”

I paused for a moment, knowing full well that the next thing I was about to say would not go over too well. “Your beliefs around safety are based on a flawed perception, not reality. This neighborhood is not any safer than the one I’m moving to. Its just much fancier and much whiter.”

She bristled. “What, now you’re suggesting that I’m racist? I just think you’re making a bad choice, that’s all.”

Choice, I thought to myself. As though this move was a matter of free choice rather than of economic displacement. And while my friend was not a conscious racist, I knew her opinion on this issue was based on prejudicial fear much more than she realized or would ever admit. It was the exact same reaction that I had gotten from all my white, middle-class friends over the past month.

She continued. “I know you need more space, and I know your place isn’t ideal, but I just don’t understand why you would move there.“

There. She simply couldn’t hide the distaste in her voice. She didn’t understand. She had said so numerous times, and the depth of that lack of understanding was becoming quite evident. And such a lack of understanding definitely wasn’t limited to her. Apparently the entire neighborhood felt a need to warn me of the bad “choice” I was making, a neighborhood almost exclusively made up of white, liberal urban professionals where the average person made well over four times what I did in a year. The friends so concerned about my well being were all college-educated with jobs that paid well enough to be able to afford market rate rents in the Slope. They never quite figured out over the years that I had been expertly “passing” as one of them by virtue of my whiteness and my middle-class roots while in reality I had been barely scraping by from paycheck to paycheck.

I was tired of maintaining that illusion, and once my living situation took a turn for the worst it was clear to me that I needed to move on. Moving on meant I had no choice but to move out of the neighborhood. While my reasons were primarily economic, I also felt a strong need to get away from a community atmosphere that I had come to regard over time as an insular, privileged bubble. I may have passed for years as just another one of the Park Slope locals, but I had realized over time that their values were not synonymous with my own, and my recent interactions with well-meaning friends had driven that point home in a very painful way. I was more than ready to move on. In fact, I was greatly looking forward to it.

I. Displacement and Divine Intervention

It was the spring of 2004. For the past four years I had been living in a falling-down Victorian-era brownstone in the heart of Park Slope, Brooklyn, the one shabby brownstone on a million-dollar block that had been renting for less than half of what the apartment was worth on the market due to its condition.

The “deal” had come with many downsides, tolerable at first but which worsened over the years: little to no working heat combined with drafty windows, broken appliances that were rarely repaired, and a landlady with schizophrenia who had recently taken to sneaking into our apartment on multiple occasions and snipping the phone wires in an attempt to quell the voices in her head. While the intermittent inconveniences such as no stove, no flushing toilet, and no heat were things that I had been willing to put up in exchange for a front-stoop view of Prospect Park, the unsettling invasions of my privacy was the straw that had finally broken the camel’s back.

Park Slope, Brooklyn. Photo by Gregory Kats

Finding somewhere else to live proved to be much trickier than I had expected. Gentrification had already taken hold in previously affordable areas such as Williamsburg, Fort Greene, and Prospect Heights, and the rents in those neighborhoods were far out of reach. I had very few criteria for a new apartment: I wanted to stay in Brooklyn, I needed to be within walking distance to a subway line within an hours commute into Manhattan, I needed a bodega within walking distance, and my preference was to feel safe when walking at night, though I was also quite aware of the relative nature of that last piece. I had been looking at places in surrounding neighborhoods for over a month, and I was starting to feel quite discouraged. I wasn’t sure where to look next and I was worried that my realistic options were few to none.

The brownstone next door to me in Park Slope was occupied by a husband-wife architectural duo that worked at home and employed two Haitian nannies, one for each of their children. One night, I had been driving home late after a day of unsuccessful apartment searching when I saw one of the nannies, walking in the opposite direction, south down McDonald Avenue. I assumed she had missed the last bus and was headed home on foot, and I pulled over and offered her a ride.

She refused at first, not wanting to be an imposition, and as we went back and forth through the open car window an overwhelming feeling came over me, one that was too sudden and intense to simply ignore. I felt very strongly that I needed to take her home, that I was supposed to, on a level the reverberated far beyond the motions of kind gestures and good deeds.

“Please, I insist. Driving past you was no coincidence. I’m supposed to take you home. Really. Please.”

I got the impression that she hadn’t quite understood everything I said, but something in the urgency of my voice caused her to relent. She opened the passenger door and climbed in. I asked her where she lived, and she told me to head “towards Flatbush, near the crossroads”.

“The crossroads? Do you mean Flatbush Junction?”

She nodded. “Yes, I’m sorry, I forget the name sometimes,” she said in steady, careful English.

“Nothing at all to be sorry about,” I answered. “I just wanted to make sure I’m driving to the right place.”

As we drove towards her destination, that feeling grew even stronger, a feeling that I had long ago come to associate with aspects of divine intervention. As we neared the junction, it occurred to me that in all the neighborhoods I had searched for apartments in, I hadn’t yet considered this one. I was vaguely familiar with the area, as I had applied to (but never attended) Brooklyn College a few years back. It was a working-class Caribbean neighborhood, and as I pulled up to the “crossroads” I remembered that it was at the end of a subway line, just about an hour’s distance from Manhattan.

She got out of the car, thanked me profusely, and walked eastward down Glenwood Avenue. I drove a block or so in the other direction, parked my car, and proceeded to walk the entire neighborhood for the next several hours, staying out all night long.

A block past the commercial strip that constituted Flatbush Junction, I discovered a quiet, modest, working-class neighborhood, with residential blocks that alternated between a mixture of Victorian and post-war homes and 50’s-era five and six-story apartment buildings. As I walked around, I became increasingly charmed and captivated by the energy and aesthetics of the neighborhood.

As the sun rose, I realized that not once had I felt unsafe at all while walking the streets at night. Heading back to my car shortly after sunrise, I encountered the first wave of morning residents, and noticed immediately that Kreyol, not English, was the dominant language in the air. I briefly felt as though I was in a foreign country, and there was a great appeal to that feeling. I stood at the corner of Flatbush Junction, and recognized it for the first time as the true crossroads that it was. There was some deep magic in that neighborhood, and the pull I felt was indescribable.

Flatbush Junction, facing north, Summer 2004.

A day or two later, the very first ad that popped up on my morning apartment search was for the first floor of a house in East Flatbush, only a few blocks away from where I had dropped the nanny off. I called the number, and went to look at it the same afternoon. It was literally everything I had been looking for. The house was a beautiful old Victorian with a handsome front porch, a driveway, and a front and back yard. The price was right, it was near the subway, and it was bright and spacious. I knew immediately, this was the place. Best of all, the landlady seemed quite eager to rent to me.

“I just rented the second floor to a young Puerto Rican couple,” she told me as I walked through the house. “There’s a small studio up on the third floor, but I’m not trying to rent that out right now. All I ask is that you all split the yard work.”

We talked out some details, and a few days later the papers were signed. I started to pack, broke the news to my current friends and neighbors, and after a month’s worth of well-meaning folks trying to dissuade me from my decision, moving day could not come fast enough. I left Park Slope without much fanfare, relieved to be free of that environment and looking forward to a new experience.

II. White House, Black Street

I was an economic refugee of sorts, trying desperately to carve a little hole for myself in a quickly gentrifying city that seemed to have less and less space for folks like myself. Many of my new neighbors, on the other hand, were actual refugees. A significant portion of the neighborhood population consisted of Haitian immigrants who had fled the regime of “Baby Doc” Duvalier and settled in Brooklyn in the early-to-mid 1980s. The rest of the neighborhood was mainly composed of folks of Jamaican or Trinidadian descent, many who had been born in the Caribbean and had settled in the neighborhood a few years after the first wave of Haitians.

My new landlady, Leslie, was a second-generation Jamaican-American. She had grown up in the neighborhood, had become the first in her family to graduate from college, did well for herself in the business world, and had bought the house as an investment property. This distinguished her from the other homeowners on the block, the vast majority who were all Haitian or Jamaican-born working-class folks who owned their homes and lived in them with their extended families. I could sense immediately upon moving in that the neighbors were not thrilled with her decision to rent the house out to “white folks”, and I also learned quickly that the neighbors considered my upstairs neighbors to be “white” as well, at least white enough to be regarded as outsiders in their eyes.

Within the first week of moving in, I was buying some fruit at one of the corner markets when a tall, college-aged Black man came right up to me and introduced himself.

“Hey there, I’m Karl,” he said. “You must be the girl who just moved into the White House.”

“The White House?” I asked, baffled. “It was mauve the last time I checked.”

He laughed. “That’s what my momma calls your house, as does most everyone else on the block. It’s got nothing to do with the color of the paint.”

My face must have revealed my sudden discomfort, as he immediately tried to put me at ease. “Don’t take it personally,” he said. “If it helps, they were calling it that even before you moved in. The moment that Miss Leslie bought that house, we all knew she was gonna try to rent it to white folks. She’s just trying to make money off that house. I get it, I don’t blame her, but many folks around here think she’s a sellout. They’re worried about gentrification, and the last thing they want to see is wealthy Blacks who don’t live here buying up properties to rent to white people with money.”

“But I don’t have money,” I countered. “That’s why I moved here in the first place.”

He laughed again. “What you actually have don’t matter much. It’s the perception. You ARE money, even if you don’t have money.”

I looked down, not sure how to respond. “Hey, look, I don’t care,” he said reassuringly. “I think your presence here makes it all a little more interesting, to be honest. But I thought you should know what’s what as far as the neighbors are concerned.”

I learned later that Karl was the son of one of the local preachers. He was the son of Haitian immigrants, born and raised in the neighborhood, and he was a student at Brooklyn College. He lived a few doors down, spoke both English and Kreyol fluently, and was the only person on the block who actively made a regular effort to be friendly toward me. From our very first conversation onward, I understood what his role was and would be: as a middleman and mediator between the “White House” and the surrounding neighbors. In the beginning, our exchanges began and ended at simple courtesies, but he soon became a trusted acquaintance, always willing to talk about anything. Karl was never afraid to ask hard questions, would always give honest answers, and had an uncanny way of reflecting my truth back to me when I couldn’t see it for myself.

“My friends think that my living here is dangerous,” I mentioned to him one afternoon a few weeks later. He laughed. “HA! Dangerous? For you? You’re the safest soul for miles. Nobody’s gonna touch you with a 10-foot pole.”

I looked at him, puzzled. “I don’t quite understand,” I said.

“Its easy. If anything happens to the nice little white girl, this place’ll be crawling with police in about five seconds flat. And nobody, absolutely nobody wants to bring that around here. I’m not saying bad things don’t happen around here sometimes, they do. But crime around here is driven by disputes, and those disputes tend to be interpersonal, and when they do happen its usually kept on the down low and dealt with by the community. But you, nobody dare mess with you. I can promise you that. We all got 41 reasons to make sure nothing happens to bring the police around, if you get my drift.”

I was silent. While it was a slight relief to be assured of my safety, the implications of what Karl just told me were very unsettling for several reasons. I had experienced police oppression as a political activist in the form of pepper spray and riot gear, but I did not fear police violence as an everyday reality in the way that I knew so many Black residents in the city did. Karl’s mention of “41 reasons” was a well-known reference to the 1999 police shooting of Amadou Diallo, an unarmed immigrant from Guinea, shot to death in the vestibule of his Bronx building. He was pulling out his wallet to show the police ID, and police mistook his wallet for a gun and shot him 41 times. I was now living one block from the border of the NYPD’s 70th Precinct, where Abner Louima, a Haitian immigrant, was brutalized and sodomized by police in the bathroom of the stationhouse in 1997 after being arrested at a nightclub. The beating led to the indictments of five NYPD officers, four of whom were found guilty.

The murder of Amadou Diallo, as well as the deaths of Patrick Dorismond, Ousmane Zongo, and the brutal beating of Louima, were still fresh in the minds of New York’s Black community. Those deaths were still fresh in my mind as well, but I did not personally walk around in fear as a result. For the first time, I truly understood the meaning of “white privilege” as it applied to my life.

III. Invisibility, Racism, and Unwanted Attention

There’s a thin yet definite line between cordial and friendly, a line I had always been aware of but learned to sense very quickly around my new neighborhood. The neighbors were mostly polite to me, but not always welcoming. They were understandably wary, not so much about me personally, but about what my presence in the neighborhood meant on a larger level. I accepted their wariness and understood it very deeply, always sensitive to my position as an outsider in the community, and I never took it personally when I was met by aloof behavior. I considered myself to be a guest in the neighborhood, and the last thing I ever wanted to do was wear out my welcome.

There was a wide range of reactions to me from various business owners, from outright coldness to an over-emphasized politeness. While some shopkeepers would often pretend not to notice me and deliberately pay me as little attention as possible, one of the Korean women who worked at the produce market would go out of her way to wait on me every time I walked in, deliberately ignoring all of her other customers in the process. I found that while being ignored at the deli counter brought a certain discomfort, the preferential treatment I experienced at the produce market felt much, much worse.

The simple act of buying food quickly revealed certain cultural differences that stood between myself and the rest of the population. The man who owned the meat market around the corner took a liking to me immediately, and we were equally fascinated and respectful of each other’s ways and mannerisms, but he made it clear to me that I stuck out as an anomaly in ways that went far beyond the color of my skin.

“Why you always in such a hurry?” he asked me one day.

I hadn’t been in a hurry at all, or so I thought. But instead of answering him immediately, I took a moment, looked around, and really thought about his question while taking in the environment around me. It was true, there was an impatient edge to my energy that was absent amongst everyone else in the market. There was a certain patience that most around here seemed to exercise that was not easy for me to tap into. I also realized that when I had lived in Park Slope, I always saw myself as the patient one, constantly having to deal with the arrogantly rushed nature of time-obsessed business types. Oh, how the tables had turned.

“I’m not really in a hurry, but I’m starting to realize that I do need to learn to slow down a bit,” I finally said to him. He smiled and nodded while handing me my purchase.

A few blocks down was a Caribbean carry-out restaurant with a smell coming out the door so intoxicating that every time I walked past I slowed down to enjoy it. The first few times I peeked inside, it struck me as being as much as a social club atmosphere as it did a restaurant. People gathered together and talked while waiting for their food — loud, animated conversations that carried across the entire room. Going inside felt intimidating, but eventually the smell of curried goat overtook my feelings of hesitation, and I opened the door and walked in.

The entire place immediately went silent at first. I froze for a second, and after what seemed like a very long moment, everyone went back to their conversations, and I walked up to the counter and ordered some curried goat. I paid and stepped to the side, looked around for somewhere to sit, and finding none I leaned up against the wall and waited. And waited. And waited.

I looked around, and the social aspect suddenly became very clear to me. The wait was part of the experience, and a very enjoyable and anticipated part for everyone else in the room; time spent catching up with friends and relatives after work. But I didn’t know a soul in the room, I didn’t understand most of what was being spoken, and I felt both like I stuck out and yet was completely invisible at the same time. It was unlike any feeling I had ever experienced. It felt alienating and lonely, and yet it was also fascinating.

I felt so impatient, and yet was militantly determined not to show it. After what literally seemed upwards of an hour, my name was finally called, and I walked back up to the counter as slowly and calmly as I could. As I was handed my food, the woman behind the counter looked me in the eye and gave me a warm, genuine smile. “I know it can get rough and loud in here,” she said to me. “But thank you for coming in, and thank you for waiting. I threw some extra plantain in for you.” She smiled again, maintaining eye contact. I returned the smile and thanked her for the food.

It was one of the best meals that I’ve had in my entire life.

* * * * *

A few months later, one of my friends from Park Slope came to visit for the afternoon. She had stopped to buy a soda at the deli while walking from the subway to my house, and when she arrived at my door she expressed her anger at the experience.

“They completely ignored me in there,” she said. “I’ve never experienced such racism in my life.”

“That’s not racism,” I said to her. “Its aloofness, its arguably prejudicial, but its not racism. If you want to really experience racism, go buy a soda at the produce market down the street from the deli.” She looked at me quizzically. “Come on, I’ll even go with you. You’ll see what I mean.”

We walked the few blocks to the Junction and went into the produce market. I grabbed a soda and walked up towards the front counter. And just as I expected, the shopkeeper saw us and immediately waved us over to the front of the line while shooing away several Haitian women who had been waiting patiently to pay for their groceries.

“No,” I said firmly to the shopkeeper. “They were first. They are waiting. Please serve them first.” The shopkeeper looked at me with anger and frustration, and reluctantly went back to ringing up the Haitian women, already in line. I looked over at my friend. She was frozen with disbelief.

“That happens every time I walk in there,” I told her after we walked out. “Every single time. That there, that’s what racism is, and that’s what it means and what it feels like to be on the beneficiary end of systemic racism. A few grumpy old-timers at the deli counter just don’t compare. What you just witnessed happens every single time I enter that produce market, no matter how many times I voice my disapproval to the shopkeeper.”

“Is it because she thinks you have more money than everyone else?” she asked.

“I think that’s a part of it. But I also think it runs much, much deeper than that.”

She nodded. I could tell that she had firmly grasped the point I had tried to make, but I knew that she was also having a very hard time processing what she had just experienced.

We still spoke once in a while after that day, but she never visited me again.

* * * * *

I was sweeping my front porch one afternoon when Karl waved me over from the sidewalk. I put down the broom and walked over.

“You’re being watched, just so you know”, he said to me. “Or someone in your house is, anyway.”

“Watched? By who?”

“I don’t know who, men in suits in an unmarked car. They’ve been watching you for at least a week. Not sure how you missed it, but I can tell you that the rest of the block is quite aware of the situation and more than a little uneasy about it.”

“Why are they…” I started, and immediately stopped and swallowed the rest of my words. I was asking a question that I realized I already knew the answer to. We stared at each other for a second as the weight of the situation sunk in.

I knew full well why my house was being watched by men in unmarked cars. It was a only a few weeks before the 2004 Republican National Convention, and my place had become a hotbed of activist organizing over the past month. Other activist friends had experienced police and FBI surveillance in recent days, so it was no surprise to me that I was being watched as well.

But I immediately realized that while I wasn’t bothered by this, my actions were bringing law enforcement attention at the expense of everyone else’s comfort, and while I had no control over that reality, I was responsible nonetheless. My very presence brought police surveillance to a community that held a deep-running fear and mistrust of police, due to the history of police brutality in NYC as well as the significant number of undocumented residents living in the neighborhood. My lack of fear was a testament to my privilege, and the reactions of my neighbors were a testament to their lived reality. I did not fear the police the way my neighbors did, but I also did not have reason to fear the police as they did. I had always understood this in theory, but nonetheless, when it hit home for me, it hit quite hard.

I stopped holding organizing meetings at my house. It was the least I could do.

IV. Gods, Ghosts, and Ghede

I had never been surrounded by so many churches, and never any that piqued my fascination quite like the storefront churches near the house. The “Apostolic House of Prayer” on Nostrand Avenue was but a tiny brick front with bars on the doors and windows, but the singing in that church on Sunday mornings was so powerful that it would often wake me up from a sound sleep. Equally fascinating was the Haitian Freemason lodge right next door, which bore the name “Respectable Loge Les Frères Unis, Orient de Brooklyn”. The “Mistical Order of St. Gabriel’s Spiritual Church Inc.” down the road was often shuttered, but when it was open the line to get in stretched halfway down the block. But more than anything, I was drawn to the energy emanating from the “Yoruba Orisha Baptist Church”, further down on the same block. Every time I walked by, I felt a distinctive pull, and resisting the urge to satisfy that curiosity was a challenge. Once, I placed my hand on the door, and while I felt the pull even stronger, I sensed that the very doorknob itself recognized and regarded me as an outsider. Stepping through the door felt quite inappropriate, despite my gnawing curiosity.

But I soon learned that one did not have to step through the doors of a local church to experience the local gods, however. I had been working with various Lwa and Orisha long before moving here, but being in a place where my neighbors granted them strong attention greatly elevated their presence in my everyday affairs. I had always perceived gods and spirits as real, independent beings, but in East Flatbush, the Gods themselves were literally my neighbors. The Gods were everywhere; their voices and opinions were often louder than the sounds of the neighborhood itself. I felt them in the sidewalks, heard them in the streets, and after a while, their presence became normalized, a part of everyday affairs. I would find myself regularly conversing aloud with spirits on my treks around the neighborhood, prompting a few of my neighbors to start quietly referring to me as “Le Fou” as I walked past.

One afternoon, I was approaching the house when a gleam from the third floor window drew my attention. In the window, stood an elderly white gentleman and a young girl in a bright red dress. Both looked out towards the street.

That’s funny, I thought. Leslie had given me the distinct impression that the third floor was vacant. I thought hard, racking my brain for her exact words. She had said to me that she wasn’t trying to rent it out at the moment, which I had taken to mean that it was uninhabited. Perhaps I had misunderstood her? I looked up again, and the man and the child were gone. A split second later I spotted a fleeting image of a smallish-looking man in a top hat. As soon as I realized what I was seeing, he disappeared from the window.

Le Fou indeed, I thought to myself. Perhaps I am going a little crazy. I deliberately put that last image out of my mind, making a mental note to introduce myself to the old man sometime. I saw the old man and the little girl a few times after that, but their existence had a tendency to fleet from my memory. While their presence remained a lingering curiosity, its one that I left lingering instead of chasing it down.

One afternoon, I opened the main door to the house to find a young man struggling to move a small loveseat up the stairs. “Hi, I’m Sam,” he said to me as I entered. “I’m moving up to the third floor.”

I thought back to the old man and little girl whom I had seen at the window. Had they moved out without my noticing? I drifted off in thought, then quickly snapped back and offered my assistance with the loveseat. As we rounded the top of the stairs through the door to his studio, I suddenly felt an immediate shift in energy, as though I had walked through an invisible barrier. The apartment felt slightly claustrophobic, despite being spacious and nearly empty. It also felt old and stuck in time, though the paint was fresh and the floor had a polished shine to it. Sam seemed oblivious to everything I was feeling, and as I stood there taking in my surroundings, he excitedly started to show me around.

“It was just refinished,” he said to me. “Everything’s new, except for the bathroom sink and tub. Leslie said she’s pretty sure that nobody’s lived up here for a long time.”

I wasn’t sure what to say. I didn’t trust my instincts at the moment, and I was overwhelmed with conflicting thoughts. Subjectivity and rationalization were battling in my brain, and I tried to tune the fight out as I followed him around, nodding in approval as he showed me the bells and whistles. When I walked into the bathroom, I noticed that the fixtures were original to the house, unlike the bathrooms on the other two floors. The beautiful, claw-foot tub took up more than half the bathroom, and the sink had a quaint, 20’s vibe that made me just a tad envious. Other than the strange energy that I couldn’t quite shake, the apartment was quite the sweet space. I complimented him on the find, and he beamed. “It’s my first apartment away from home,” he said. “This is a dream come true.”

A few weeks later, I was sitting at my kitchen table, putting the finishing touches on a series of sketches, when I felt a drop of water on my head. I looked up just as the first ceiling tile started to fall, and I pushed my chair back just in time to avoid a whack on the head. Within seconds, the entire ceiling started to fall, and after the water-soaked tiles all fell, water started to pour through the holes onto my kitchen table, destroying my work.

The ceiling as it started to fall

I ran upstairs to the third floor and knocked on the door as hard as I could. I could hear the water running. I knocked again and started to yell, but no answer. I tried the handle but the door was locked, and as I stood there debating whether to whack the handle off with a brick, a bleary-eyed, barely-conscious Sam opened the door. I ran right past him into the bathroom. The tub was overflowing, and there were at least four inches of water on the floor. I turned off the faucet and turned around. Sam was standing there at the doorway, aghast.

“I don’t even remember turning the tub on,” he said, both his voice and body shaking. “I mean, I guess I must have and just forgot, because, well, obviously it was on, but I’ve been sleeping this whole time as far as I know. I went out drinking last night, and I’ve been out cold for hours.” He pointed to the couch next to the door. “I didn’t even make it to my bed,” he said, sheepishly.

We were equally in shock, for very different reasons. By the amount of water, I estimated that the tub hadn’t been on for more than an hour or so. But I could also tell by Sam’s lack of responsiveness when I entered the apartment that he had been in a deep sleep. Something didn’t add up, but I couldn’t dwell on that at the moment. The entire house was flooded, and it needed to be dealt with.

The next day, I was dragging the wet mess of ceiling tiles and debris from my kitchen out to the street when Karl ran up to help me. “What happened?” he asked, as he grabbed one of the bags of tiles from me.

“New kid on the third floor overflowed the tub and it flooded down through all the floors as a result,” I told him. “My kitchen’s a disaster. He’s been up there less than a month, and he just caused at least ten grand worth of damage to the house. He says he doesn’t even remember turning the tub on, and for some reason I actually believe him, but at the same time I want to slap him senseless. The only thing that keeps me from doing so is keeping in mind that my anger is nothing compared to what he’s going to get from Leslie.”

I paused. “I feel like the house was much better off when the old man and the little kid were living up there. What happened to them, anyway?”

Karl immediately froze in his tracks and turned noticeably pale. He looked at me, eyes wide and round with fear. “You’ve seen them too?” he whispered quietly.

“Yeah, once or twice. They were real quiet up there, I never spoke to them, but….” I trailed off when I noticed that Karl was literally shaking. “What is it?” I asked. “What aren’t you telling me?”

“Have you see the Ghede as well?” he asked, his voice still barely above a whisper.

“Ghede?” I asked. “Do you mean the man with the top hat?”

Karl nodded. “Momma’s been seeing them all since before I was born. Papa won’t let her speak of it, says it’s the devil’s work.” He pointed to the house across the street. “I talked to Emmaline about it once. She says something bad happened, years ago. She’s not quite sure what, but she sees them too. She told me that the man in the top hat is one of the Ghede. I always wanted to ask her more about it, but Papa doesn’t like me talking to her.”

Emmaline was an elderly Haitian woman who lived down the street. I knew very little about her overall, as she had made it clear to me at the beginning that she was not interested in meaningful interactions with me, but she was well-known around the neighborhood as a competent and powerful vodouisant, much to the displeasure and distaste of some of the more Christian neighbors. I could only imagine how Karl’s strict Baptist father would react upon finding out that Karl was learning about ghosts and Ghede from Emmaline.

“That answers a whole lot of questions, even ones I didn’t know I had yet,” I replied.

It all made a little more sense now, although I was still unnerved. Sam was evicted from the apartment due to the extent of damage he caused, and once Leslie received the full estimate for the damage, she chose to only repair the bottom two floors. The third floor apartment remained vacant from that point forward.

I still felt a need to tie up one last loose end, however, to remove any lingering doubt I had about the facts of the matter and what I had witnessed. The next time I saw Leslie, I innocently asked her again about the third floor apartment. “You know, I hadn’t even realized that apartment had been vacant and for rent until I ran into Sam in the hallway that first day. When did the other tenants move out?”

She looked at me surprisingly. “There’s been nobody living up there since I bought the place,” she told me. “I told you that when you moved in. It’s funny, though… one of the other women down the block just asked me the same thing the other day.”

V. The Green Goddess of Gentrification

I was walking towards the bagel shop next to the Brooklyn College campus when a panhandler stopped me at the corner of Flatbush Avenue and Hillel Place. He pointed to the next corner over. “Look, missy,” he exclaimed, his voice equal parts excitement and sarcasm. “They’re building you a coffee shop!”

“Me? What?” I looked where he had pointed and my heart sank. The vacant restaurant next to the bagel shop had hung a huge sign in the window overnight, impossible to miss. “Coming Soon: Starbucks Coffee” it said.

“Yep, missy,” he continued. “That’s for you there, that’s there’s the honey to attract all the flies with money. Some are gonna say ‘there goes the neighborhood’ right there.” He paused, and looked down at his can, empty but for a few quarters. “But for me, I’m rather looking forward to it.” He grinned.

I walked off with a knot in my stomach, thinking about his words and how they had made me feel. You, he had said. That coffee shop is for you. Me, the gentrifier.

A few weeks later, the Starbucks was open for business. And sure enough, over the next several months, I watched with fascination and horror as the signs of gentrification became more and more apparent around the neighborhood. Businesses were opening where storefronts had been vacant. New construction projects started to break ground. “For Rent” signs appeared on phone poles and bulletin boards in English, where previously Kreyol or Patois had been the norm, and the posted prices made it clear that the landlords were marketing towards a more affluent crowd. While I had been one of the only female white faces around the neighborhood until that point, over time I started to see more and more white folks in their twenties and thirties during my daily outings.

And with that change, my relationship with the neighborhood changed, both with the people as well as with the place itself. In proportion to the signs of gentrification all around me, I started to feel a resentment that had previously been absent. While my presence in the neighborhood had been accepted or at least tolerated as an interesting novelty by most, more and more I felt that I represented something else, something that my neighbors understandably found threatening. I had moved there due to continuing gentrification of my old neighborhood, and two years later I was filling the position of the invasive gentrifier, through no fault of my own. I was once a casualty of the problem, and now I was on the other side, a part of the problem.

Just as the neighborhood beckoned me there, I strongly felt that it now coaxed me to leave. As the months passed, the feeling became unmistakable. The sidewalks, the trees, the buildings — everything subtly suggested to me that it was time to move on. In desperation, I abandoned my requirement of being within an hour’s commute of Manhattan. I found a barely-affordable place at the south end of Bay Ridge, trading the last stop on the 2 for the second-to-last stop on the R. It felt right, and I was just as confident in this decision as I was in my last decision.

But though leaving Park Slope felt like a mutually agreed-to breakup, leaving East Flatbush felt different. It was sentimental, painful, necessary yet sad. Never had a place taught me so much, lessons that centered on myself as well as what it means to be both Black and white in this “melting pot” that is Brooklyn and America. I was sad to go, but I felt satisfied with what I took away from this experience. I was supposed to move here, I thought to myself, and now I’m supposed to leave, and I completely understand why. I understand all of it, and I’m thankful for every moment of it, and I’m ready for the next chapter now.

Karl walked over when he saw me loading my van. “Good luck to you,” he said to me, with a bit of sadness in his voice. “I get why you’re leaving, but its been nice having you around. I know not everyone thinks so, but I do.”

“Thank you,” I said, and gave him an unexpected hug.

After the house had been emptied and swept clean to my satisfaction, I bid the house goodbye, and tipped my cap to whoever or whatever was upstairs. But as I started to walk down the porch steps for the last time, I was hit with an unexpected wave of sadness. I suddenly felt an urgent need to leave some small part of myself behind. I turned around back up the stairs, took out my knife, and hastily scratched my initials as a sigil-like design into the back of a set of vintage theater seats that sat on the front porch, seats that I had placed there when I first moved in and was now leaving behind due to space constraints. I placed my hand on top of the scratching for a moment, noticed the warmth of my flesh against the metal in the sun, and felt satisfied. I walked back down to the stairs and started up my overloaded van.

As I pulled away, I glanced back at the window on the third floor. Standing at the window, staring at me as I drove off, was a figure wearing a top hat.

VI. Afterword

According to a recently released report from the NYC Comptroller’s office, the average rent in New York City rose by an average of 67% in the period from 2000 to 2012, compared to a 44% rise nationwide. The steepest rise was seen in Brooklyn at 77%, with Manhattan rents averaging 65% more. The average low-income family in NYC currently pays around 41% of their income in rent, and the poverty rate in NYC currently stands at over 20%.

After moving from East Flatbush in the summer of 2006, I held on in Brooklyn for another year or so, but I finally accepted that I was fighting a losing battle in terms of affordable rent. I left New York for Oregon in the fall of 2007, and I’m now sadly bearing witness as Portland undergoes the same patterns of gentrification that took hold of Brooklyn a decade ago. The scenery is different, but the script is the same, and it’s painful to watch such a play when you already know how the story ends.

I met up again with the smallish man in the top hat once I settled in Eugene, and we made formal introductions and got to know each other that time around. He’s quite an interesting character. I still see him out of the corner of my eye on occasion, and his appearance never fails to have meaning within the context of whatever is occurring when I spot him.

Despite the gentrification that I witnessed and experienced in the area around Brooklyn Junction, which nowadays features a Target and an Applebee’s in addition to the Starbucks, the East Flatbush neighborhood as a whole is still around 90% Black, and relations between police and citizens are as tense as ever. In the spring of 2013, a Black teenager named Kimani Gray was shot seven times and killed by police on the streets of East Flatbush, resulting in several days’ worth of protests and rioting. The officers involved were cleared of all wrongdoing.

Although I have lived in ten different apartments since moving from East Flatbush in 2006, the house is still a frequent subject of both my waking thoughts as well as my dreams and visions. Last month, the initial-sigil that I had carved into the back of the theater chairs drifted back into my memory for the first time in many years, and it put me in touch with a very strong link that I still feel towards both the house and the neighborhood itself.

Out of curiosity, a few days before I finished this piece I looked up the house in East Flatbush on Google Street View, and it turns out that the theater chairs are still on the front porch of the house, exactly where I had left them.

(Author’s Note: Names and identifying details of people and places have been changed to protect privacy.)

Alley Valkyrie

Alley Valkyrie is a social activist, writer, artist, and spirit-worker living in the Pacific Northwest. She currently divides her time between Portland and Eugene. Alley has spent the past several years working with homeless and impoverished populations in Oregon. She is also a freelance visual artist and photographer, and produces a clothing line called Practical Rabbit.

That is one of the best things I’ve read this week. And it needs telling — Americans in general, tho’ silent about it in most cases, often consider a neighborhood adversely affected when a mostly white neighborhood has new residents of any other color. Ugly truth. They never consider what THEIR presence does to a neighborhood OF color, so everything you say here needs trumpeted to the skies! Thank you for your honesty.

Relationships can be with people, places and things. You had a wonderful relationship with that neighborhood and you learned so much….about yourself and about others. Like any relationship, there is change. You felt that change and it impelled you to leave. However, you wrote so eloquently about it, we can join you in your learning and loving. As Pagans, we often stand on the borderline between worlds. The worth in that stance is that we can serve as a bridge between people, between ideas, and between people AND ideas. Thank you for being that bridge to us!

http://www.patheos.com/blogs/awitchsashram/ A Witch’s Ashram

I love the complexity of this article. I mean, where are non-wealthy white people supposed to live? And what if we resonate with or really enjoy the multi-cultural environment of non-white neighborhoods? And yet. You really nail the complexities of this in a most beautiful way. So much to think about.

http://quakerpagan.org Cat C-B

YES. I am so grateful for the honesty that comes through with this degree of complexity. It’s hard to hold the ambiguity of experience gently enough not to crush the meaning out of it. This piece does that.

Baruch Dreamstalker

A beautiful essay/memoir on contemporary urban neighborhoods.

sunfell

I sense the roots of an interesting novel here. Your intersection of culture, magick, poverty and gentrification was beautifully woven. I begin to see gentrification as a form of blight itself.

welltemperedwriter

This is a wonderful piece, and so timely.

PhaedraHPS

Alley, you are a great storyteller.

Many years ago in Chicago I moved into a neighborhood on the edge of gentrification. One evening, walking home from the L stop, I was bopped on the head with a pipe or something by a couple of Spanish kids in a failed mugging attempt. I tearfully asked the cop why they’d picked on me, because I was just as poor as they were. “Because you’re white,” he told me. “No matter what you’ve got, you’ve got more than them.”

As it happens, the really cheap apartment I was living in was found via word of mouth from other tenants in the six-flat. The building was owned by an old man who lived on the first floor, and only rented via word of mouth because if he advertised or put a notice on the door (that was the most common way of advertising vacancies in those days) he might have to rent to Spanish people. So, I’d gotten my big, cheap apartment in a neighborhood rapidly being condo-ized by virtue of white privilege.

I try to remember stuff like that.

http://quakerpagan.org Cat C-B

“The building was owned by an old man who lived on the first floor, and
only rented via word of mouth because if he advertised or put a notice
on the door (that was the most common way of advertising vacancies in
those days) he might have to rent to Spanish people.”

Yeah. Stuff it’s so easy not to see, but so impossible to unsee, once we do.

Hecate_Demetersdatter

Alley, thank you for another beautifully-written piece. Your relationship to place always anchors your writing.

Piesn Onocy

Alley, I relate so much to your story, and I’ve been on both sides of the fence–as the “gentrifier” and the “native.” Your story beautifully evoked the complexities of this issue. It’s the story of our generation, and it’s hard to pin down, but you hit the nail on the head. Thank you.

Lori Dake

We’ve lived in Logan Square (Chicago) for 19 years now, and when we moved into the neighborhood, we went through a similar situation. We were pretty broke, as in going to revival tents in Craigin for groceries/hubby shoveled steel for day labor/the three of us lived in a 1 bedroom apartment with our young son sleeping on the couch/garbage picking furniture-level of broke. We moved there because it was $495/month, heat included, they let our dog come with for no extra fee, big rooms, original wood trim, decorative fireplace, a back porch for grilling, natural hardwood floors and oh so necessary public transportation.

Bullet hole in the front door? These things happen. 3 deadbolts on the front door plus chain? Makes sense. Back door windows barred in and the back door has a 2 x 4 beam as an additional lock while at home like a medieval fortress? Sure, because I’m a princess!

And yeah, the Indian woman at the little store behind the bullet-proof glass (what we call bodegas) was extra polite now that I think about it. And yeah, I distinctly remember when Starbucks came. I felt fancy! And then the Italian bistro. And the thai place, And another. And the sushi place. FINALLY the gourmet taco place. And the Target. And now? Pffffft! Google Logan Square. It’s aka Hipster Central.

Oh and yeah. That building we lived at was since sold and turned into condos.

Trevelyan

This is an incredible piece of work. I always enjoy your writing but this one just blew me away. Thank you. And write more. Please.

Kurt Hunter

Thank you! This is a wonderfully nuanced and contextualized article; a great piece on living “between the worlds” and what it means, not just to us, but to the worlds we cross.

ChristopherBlackwell

What a wonderful story but only because you paid attention and go tot know the place understood you situation and why. Add that to the things you were able to sense and share and we have a picture of the area we could not ever have imagine on our own.

I had a similar experiance of living in Little Tokyo in downtown Los Angeles for similar finanial reasons but also was possible because I was into Japanese Buddhism. It was my district chief recently fro Japan that got me in or I might not have ever lived three. I was an outside but that was never a problem. It was places where I could it in that were the problem. I enjoyed it but it was doomed by redevelopment however my old hotel is still the same. It had been the heart of the Japanese American community until word War II when they lost most of it. But redevelopment turned in into Japan Town and controled by mostly Japanese own corporations. It is a very smart place now but not any place I would enjoy living now.

Most of the people that lived there are long gone as most of little businesses pushed out by the higher rents. Ah but I have a great many stories of my own. I ate only Japanese food, watched only Japanese movies, listened only to Japanese music, did my ceremonies in Japanese but never got to understand the language unfortunately. But I have many memories for having been there. It was my first truly safe place.¸

Lēoht “Sceadusawol” Steren

Here’s a somewhat unsettling thought.

What if you, Alley, are a catalyst for gentrification?

How does gentrification happen?

A low-income area attracts those with limited resources who then find themselves more able to live within their means without struggle. This, in turn leads to more money entering that area, boosting the local economy. This, in turn, attracts others to the area and, before you know it, the area is “up-and-coming”.

In context to the tale you have told, we can see a low income, black neighbourhood suddenly receiving a white woman into it. for various complex reasons, this woman, demonstrates that the popular (outsider) perception of the neighbourhood is unwarranted and others, who would otherwise avoid the area based on stereotype, start considering it as a viable location for low cost living.

Next thing you know, there is a Starbucks on the corner and prices start rising, which causes displacement of those unable to afford the new cost of living.

Thus the process begins again, elsewhere.

It reminds me of all those nature programmes about the Maasai Mara and the Okovango Delta. How the herds follow the resources – stopping in each area until it no longer sustains them and then moving on to the next place, in a never ending circuit – and the predators follow the herds. (Somewhere in the middle are the scavengers.)

How, then, to break that cycle?

Franklin_Evans

I’m struck — not in a good way — by the pessimism expressed by you and sunfell. I’ll start by agreeing with the specific case, but strongly cautioning against making it a general case.

I’ve lived through an entire gentrification “phase” here in Philadelphia. Nearly 30 years in one house, in the middle of a moderately blighted area connected to low-income projects (by proximity), a seriously dangerous drug economy corridor and crumbling infrastructure.

The period included both astonishing efforts and egregious profit-taking, but certainly not all at once.

Long story short: our property values didn’t plummet as much as the rest of the country when the real estate bubble burst, we have non-franchise locally-owned and operated coffee shops with nary a Starbucks outside the Center City district (where you’d expect to see them and the foot traffic to make them viable), and the racial mixture is changing organically rather than from economic pressure as a proportional thing.

We break the cycle by recognizing alternatives to its starting in the first place. There are drawbacks to every such alternative. As always, YMMV.

Lēoht “Sceadusawol” Steren

Pessimism is what I do.

I am seldom pessimistic enough, though.

Alley Valkyrie

I agree – there are ways to break the cycle in some instances, but a big part of that is understanding the cycle before it takes root and being proactive with the alternatives. Portland has taken some positive steps by investing hugely in building a significant amount of income-restricted housing in both gentrifying and already gentrified areas. I currently live in a neighborhood in Portland that is nearly identical in terms of socioeconomic composition as Park Slope is, but I can actually afford to live here because I could access affordable housing. The fact that I could access that here prevents me from becoming the inevitable gentrifier once again.

Franklin_Evans

About cycles: I don’t know directly if this was about breaking a cycle, but it sure did result in it. That drug corridor I mention above took a year to “clean” out. We had FBI, DEA and local police special units all over it. Gunshot echoes were almost nightly. Our street was a main feed to a local ER, and two or three ambulances during the night was common.

Fast forward about 20 years: today it’s a solid and growing Vietnamese community and commercial strip. Despite many claims of doom, the neighboring Italian Market has never seen better days. Big box franchises can’t get in edgewise, there’s so much local entrepreneurship. My daughter and son-in-law are raising a family in the same house, by choice and desire. The diversity of backgrounds of the new “gentry” makes any sort of “whitening” trend very unlikely, and they are all young and having children. 25 years ago they’d have been called insane with some validity.

Alley Valkyrie

I agree, and it is unsettling. Poor white artists are usually the catalyst for gentrification. I was a textbook example of that. They get pushed out of other areas due to development, find other areas where they can afford to live, and then the developers start to swarm like flies. Gentrification is a complicated process, and while in the big picture it’s driven by a combination of historic injustices and modern-day capitalism, those who are at the mercy of property owners pay dearly in the end, whether they’re the gentrifying artist or the displaced working-class family.

kenofken

The way to break that cycle is, first and foremost, to rethink the idea of “gentrification” as a problem. The way it is defined in the article uncritically buys into the idea of a zero-sum static economy and into the pagan pathology which says money=evil. Owning a home and patch of ground, a business, a stake in the world in general, and growing it’s value used to be the American dream.

No immigrant has ever come here with the hopes of re-creating their same standard of living and income and prices as they had in the old country and then locking it in forever. They come here – all of them – with the ambition to be the gentrifiers. Arrive as a peasant, reinvent yourself as a factory worker or day laborer, send your kids to school to become a CPA or dentist or IT professional. Upgrade. Gentrification, aka prosperity, is not the problem. The problem is that we’ve allowed our economy to devolve to the point that vast swaths of our population don’t have a realistic shot at trading up.

One possible reaction to that is to view gentrification as an inherent evil and to try to insulate ghettos and blighted areas from the ravages of money and the presence of young white people. One way to combat income disparity is to try to level everyone down. There are no shortage of templates to choose from, either from old communist regimes or the rinky dink command economies, populism or mafia economies around the world. That brings us back to immigration. Nobody is fleeing/moving TO these place. They’re all trying to come here.

Alternatively, we could work the problem from the other and and try to identify and fix the problems like a living wage, rotten school systems, criminalization of poverty etc. which lock people out of the option to trade up. If they had options to trade up themselves, the arrival of a Starbucks would not be such a harbinger of disaster.

Lēoht “Sceadusawol” Steren

Gentrification is not the improvement of a community, but the displacement of it.

Money and wealth are not inherent evils – I’m Heathen, most of what we know about my “spiritual forebears” is from their rather ostentatious material evidence – but the displacing of people because they can’t afford to cost of living in a gentrified community is hardly a positive thing.

Community improvement is a different thing altogether. That is when we do not see displacement of a community to allow their place to be “improved” but, rather that we see their lives being improved, including the material aspect.

How is such a thing done? I don’t know, as the current economic model dominant in the world requires a financial underclass.

In the UK it is more transparent than in the US – We do not have quite the racial divide(s) that you do, we have our “classes”.

Here, our gentrification follows a very similar pattern, but is less visible, because there is no obvious colour divide.

As far as I’m concerned, Starbucks is *always* a harbinger of disaster. I’d rather see independent, local coffee shops selling at prices that reflect local disposable incomes.

Franklin_Evans

I had a knee-jerk reaction to “displacement”, but on second thought I have a different connotation for you to consider.

We had high-rise project buildings for decades. The surrounding neighborhoods were routinely avoided by anyone on foot, ironically being located within a couple of blocks of one of the most walkable sections of our city (interested people should research “South Street” in Philadelphia).

It took more than ten years and three mayors in a row who shared a commitment to it: the high-rises were demolished, and the neighborhoods restored to their traditional pattern of row homes with alleys behind them for parking and small yards. The properties were designated low-income. Foot traffic is now both ordinary and doesn’t decline after sundown. Local businesses have returned, and high-priced developments are springing up around the area like, well, weeds… nice ones, of course, with flowers.

Anyway, the “displacement” was very real, because the low-income stock was cut by at least 75%. But that also removed IMO the real bane of low-income housing, that it is designed to also be very high density.

Lēoht “Sceadusawol” Steren

Low-income housing was cut by 75%… So where did the people who could not afford anything but low income housing live?

As for density, that is a population problem, not a housing one. Imagine how much space would be requires if that low density model of housing was applied to the missing 75% of low-income housing.

High density housing has to be the future for high population societies. Unless those populations have significant drop-off. If they do, where do the people go?

Alley Valkyrie

I agree with the need for high-density housing in terms of a sustainable future, but that housing does not work well unless it’s mixed-income, and that becomes the issue especially in cities. Everyone wants to shove all the poor folks into the least desirable areas, and more affluent folks don’t want to live alongside the poor. NYC’s housing projects are overall an absolute disaster, despite being the most high-density housing there is.

Lēoht “Sceadusawol” Steren

Short of having penthouses atop tenements, how do you viably mix income properties?

At the risk of sounding socialist (not my favourite political angle, I must admit), the best way, in the current societal set-up is to use the money generated in the more affluent areas to maintain those areas that lack the resources to maintain itself.

Beyond that, it is education. What are the stereotypical markers of a poor neighbourhood? Graffiti, criminal damage and signs of fear of crime – such as barred windows, shutters on doors and the like – as well as a state of general dilapidation.

In the UK, there have been numerous efforts to kindle pride in inner city communities. To promote feelings of community in the first place.

People are less likely to smash the windows of something they see as “theirs”.

So, by investing in these areas, they improve, for the people already living there. But what is the return on such investment? What impetus do the investors have?

Well, the most obvious one will be aesthetic. No more dilapidated “eyesores”. Beyond that? A whole raft of complex social benefits will become evident. At the very least, there will be a workforce to be exploited.

Alley Valkyrie

In the past twenty years, many cities have had success creating and maintaining mixed-income properties, usually through a combination of tax deductions/credits, public-private partnerships, and/or inclusionary zoning laws. Federal programs such as LIHTC, known better as “Section 42 Housing” are currently under promoted and under-utilized, but when they are utilized they lead to very positive results. Unfortunately,, prejudice and negative attitudes towards the poor is one of the primary reasons why more LIHTC housing is not built.

Lēoht “Sceadusawol” Steren

As soon as the government gets involved, there are going to be people that get angry. How does that get dealt with?

Alley Valkyrie

Government doesn’t force it for the most part. Under LIHTC, private developers usually take on the overall cost of the housing, aided by the tax credits and occasionally discounted property, and while the neighbors do often complain, thankfully citizens don’t legally have much of a say over who moves in next to them as long as zoning laws are complied with. People will still make a huge stink, of course often hiring lawyers and threatening lawsuits, and in that process will often only increase the negative perception within the community as a whole due to their fearmongering. We call it “NIMBY”, which is an acronym for “not in my backyard”.

Whats even more frustrating and depressing is when secured low-income housing pre-dates gentrification and still remains after gentrification is complete. The affluent folks in thse situations love to re-write history, act like they were there first, and blame government for forcing poor housing onto their neighborhoods. In my neighborhood in Portland, there’s city-owned income-restricted buildings scattered throughout the neighborhood, which are older than 90%

Lēoht “Sceadusawol” Steren

We have plenty of NIMBYism in the UK. Notably for sustainable energy generation sites.

An example of what I was talking about, regarding anger at government involvement would be Detroit. I was conversing with some people I know (on Facebook) recently, and one mentioned how the US sends millions of dollars of aid to Israel, but refuses to help out Detroit – a city in much need of improvement and investment. Another responded with immediate anger, wanting to know why their taxes should be “wasted” on Detroit.

mountainwind

‘Short of having penthouses atop tenements, how do you viably mix income properties?’

The UK is actually working on the mixed development model for new housing sites. In order to get planning permission, developers have to reserve a certain amount of units in their new development for low income housing. So in London you now see slick new developments with luxury flats and then not so luxurious flats and the residents who don’t pay the premium market prices have to use the ‘poor door’ in the back, as opposed to the plush main entrance with the concierge, and are banned from the facilities of their more affluent neighbours, such as the gym. Affluent and nonaffluent residents are even made to keep their bicycles in segregated storage units. Just google ‘poor doors.’ There was quite a lot of reporting about it earlier this month. Boris Johnson defends this as a necessary evil.

Lēoht “Sceadusawol” Steren

See, that sounds less than ideal and not something we should be welcoming.

http://www.cernowain.com/ cernowain greenman

When we had a 100 year flood in central Indiana, the people who got hit worst were those who lived by the river. A middle-class Pagan asked me, “why do those people live down there anyway?” as if it were their fault. Well, the answer is simple, a low priced flood-zoned house by the river was all they could afford. As you say, the poor are shoved into the least desirable areas.

Alley Valkyrie

Yep. Two words: Hurricane Katrina.

Franklin_Evans

This and connected tangents are excellent discussions. It’s gotten too complex to reply at every appropriate point, so please take this as more general in scope.

The “so where do they go” question is the trade-off. Yes, it’s trading one bad thing for another. So the follow-up question is “so what must be done to accomodate those people in a civilized fashion?”

I won’t belabor the Philadelphia answer, because it is truly anecdotal and may not have direct value to the general case. I will simply say that things were done, people were accomodated, and the new housing brought many of them back to their neighborhood. However, there is one answer on the graffiti (as a valid symptom of the real problems) part here called the Mural Arts Project. Look it up, see what they’ve done to transform vandals with spray paint to contributors to our culture and quality of living. It is becoming a national model.

Echoing Alley’s points with some insider* cynicism: Government programs have a proven track record of doing what they were designed to do and doing it to the benefit of those who need it most. Where they fail the vast majority of times is due to political sabotage by those whose profit margins caused or contributed to the problem.

* I’ve worked directly or indirectly with government regulations for nearly all of my working life. I’ve watched that dynamic play out many, many times.

Lēoht “Sceadusawol” Steren

Mural Arts Project… I live not far from Bristol, home town of Banksy.

I obviously lack an appreciation of art, as I see what he does as vandalism (a form of criminal damage).

Franklin_Evans

I’ve heard of Banksy, and I can easily respect your opinion that what he does is vandalism. MAP is a very different deal, driven by community activism and diligently engaging all stakeholders.

kenofken

Unless we eliminate private property ownership, there is always going to displacement and some form of gentrification. Nobody is going to rent, sell or develop property at a loss or for less than maximal profit.

Rather than trying to erect poverty preserves or no-go zones for starving young white artists, we’d do better to create a society with less poverty. High density high-rise public housing is a proven disaster. They concentrate poverty and crime and economic isolation and practically guarantee that poverty will be multi-generational.

There are ways to incentivize developers to create mixed-income development where maybe 85% or 90% of units are market rate and the rest pegged to median income etc. There are also tools which can allow cities to seize and re-develop long abandoned and tax delinquent properties.

Alley Valkyrie

Tell me, how does one create a society with less poverty?

I agree that high-density public housing is a disaster. But remediating intergenerational poverty is going to be much harde than mixed-income housing. I live in mixed-income housing, and while it’s much better than the projects overall, class bias is still pervasive and those who are impoverished still have few resoures to pull them out of it.

The issue of poverty is vastly underestimated in this country. 85 to 90% of units at market rate and the rest at median income does not work in a country where 1out of 6 people live in poverty.

Lēoht “Sceadusawol” Steren

In the UK, our government reduces poverty by shifting the goalposts.

Personally, I’d suggest shifting the basis of society away from fiscal economy. Not easy, but doable. (Would probably need to include population reduction, in some cases.)

Another potential idea is capping wages. People talk about minimum wages, but what about maximum wages?

http://www.cernowain.com/ cernowain greenman

I agree there are other options than “private property is theft from the people”, although I did once ascribe to that when I was much younger and poorer. Cities need to have the power to plan their developments, instead of that being driven by the wealthy developers.

Alley Valkyrie

I don’t subscribe to any “pagan pathology” that says money is evil. I am an anti-capitalist, however, and I very strongly believe that building surplus capital off the oppression and labor of others is immoral.

Gentrification affects much more than just “blighted” neighborhoods. East Flatbush was not the ghetto. It did not suffer from urban blight. It is and was a solidly working-class neighborhood. Gentrification displaced those who invested a generation’s worth of time and energy into that neighborhood.

Everyone can’t just “trade up”. Capitalism doesn’t work that way. Someone has to be at the bottom.

http://quakerpagan.org Cat C-B

Thank you. This is perhaps the best writing on race and privilege I’ve read in months… and the best writing on magic I’ve read in at least that long. Breathtaking, in fact.

I’m suspect you’ll get some flak for having written it, because, well, the Internet. But this is really strong stuff; it makes me uncomfortable in the ways that only Holy Truth can do.

Blessings.

Romany Rivers

A truly wonderful article, well written and beautifully expressed. Thank you for showing me the world through your eyes as you discovered the world through others eyes. As others here have said, this is the best writing on race and privilege I have read for a long time.

FreemanPresson

What they said. I also appreciate, given that the piece appears in “The Wild Hunt,” that its Paganism is part of the background, taken for granted, as it is in the lives of people who have been Pagan for decades or a lifetime.

Sabina Magliocco

A beautiful piece; thank you for telling this story. It speaks strongly to so many current issues — race, class, capitalism, privilege — in a nuanced, reflexive way.

Tara

This really resonated with me. I am from a small town in NJ, that has been undergoing gentrification by finacially displaced people from wealthier counties in NJ, and NYC. We also experienced the gentrification when we lived on the east end of Long Island. Now we live in a small town in the south, and we’re seen as the gentrifiers.

Annika Mongan

What a heartbreakingly beautiful story. Thank you for sharing.

happydog

I’ll be honest. I seldom read articles on the Internet all the way to the end. I read this one all the way to the end. Outstanding work.

http://saffronrose.livejournal.com/ A. Marina Fournier

Love your stories–would love to have them read by you in an audiobook.
This was a wonderful and wonder-filled piece, and I thank you for it.

mountainwind

Beautiful, beautiful writing and such poignant and insightful observations. Brava! I think you need to write a book, or at least get your essays published in the New Yorker. You’re a first class writer, Alley.

Merri-Todd Webster

I hope, Alley, that you will eventually compile your pieces into a book. I know I would buy it and re-read it.